2 5 o FROM A MIDDLESEX GARDEN 



At noon the elms stand out golden-green against a sky of 

 blue ; the red sloe-foliage against either side of the farm-field 

 gates splashes, as with blood, the lintels for Autumn's pass- 

 over angel. Flecked is the grass with multi-coloured leaves, 

 warm and dull reds, fiery and subdued browns, clear and 

 mottled yellows many-coloured and beautiful beyond the 

 possibility of description or enumeration. Crisp leaves of 

 beech crackle beneath one's feet ; more crisp the bracken 

 rustles in the undergrowth, while embroidering the hedges at 

 the feet of tangled grasses and withered stems the herb 

 Robert spreads its cardinal leaves of elegant design. Above, 

 a lark, wooed back to song by the seeming return of Summer, 

 floods the empty fields with its music. 



October nights make the world one dull sheet of sombre, 

 pitiless colour, wrapping everything with a cold, clammy 

 mist. Upon all an overbearing silence steals ; everything 

 seems to be given up to sleep and to the utter abandonment 

 of decay ; by the hopelessness of its appearance, each tree is 

 putting off the beauty of its early change as the rain falls 

 faster and faster. Comes the sound of bells chiming the hour, 

 telling of but two left to sum up the day. The ceaseless 

 boom of fog-signals break upon the air, hinting of discomfort 

 and danger. Under foot the soft oozy fragrant leaves ; a 

 long road of flickering lamps, lighting but faintly the wet 

 roads, where the rain swirls and eddies in the roadside chan- 

 nels ; a ceaseless drip of gathered raindrops falling with the 

 falling leaves in musical splashes. The rain blows into our 

 eyes, lending a halo to the faint lights. No star is visible 

 on high, no break is seen in the great stretch of bare, black 

 heaven. Better to be out of sight of all such dismalness, to 



